Chapter 41

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Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Jackson's Pov

Whatever the future looked like — fieldwork, training, something entirely new — I'd face it on my terms.

I wasn't who I used to be.

But I was still here.

Still whole.

Still Jackson.

And that was enough.

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Jackson's Pov

September 10, 2024

The house felt wrong without him.

Not dangerous or unsafe — just... off. Like it was missing its second heartbeat. Its spark.

It was just past 9:00 a.m., and the silence had started creeping in like fog, wrapping around the baseboards, settling into the corners. Boston was down for his mid-morning nap, and I'd finally gotten a chance to sit, alone, mug of coffee cooling in my hands, untouched.

Stiles had left just after 6:30 a.m.

He'd stood in front of the mirror with half-tamed hair, pulling on a dress shirt he didn't entirely feel at home in anymore. The sleeves were a bit tight from disuse. He hadn't worn a tie in weeks, and his fingers fumbled slightly with the knot. I watched from the bed, Boston still latched at my chest, sleepy and milk-drunk as dawn broke.

"You look like an undercover high school teacher," I'd said.

Stiles snorted. "That's generous. I feel like a substitute teacher who forgot his ID badge."

I tilted my head. "So... a threat."

"Exactly," he said, tugging the tie looser, finally giving up and leaving it askew. "Menace to society."

He was nervous. I could see it in his jaw, the way it clenched every few seconds like his brain was trying to reset itself. He hadn't been back to the Bureau since before Boston's birth — not in person. Just the occasional Zoom meeting from the dining room table or half-finished paperwork scattered between burp cloths.

Today was different.

He was reporting to HQ. Officially.

Just for a half-day. Just to talk logistics, ease in, reacclimate.

Still. It was his first step back into a world that moved much faster, much colder than the one we'd been living in for the last seven weeks.

"You're going to be fine," I told him softly, once Boston was tucked back into his bassinet, arms flung wide in his usual chaos pose.

"I know," Stiles had said. "I just... don't want to miss anything."

I stood up, wrapped my arms around his waist, and pressed my forehead to his shoulder. "You're allowed to leave. We're not going anywhere."

He nodded against me, hand slipping into my hair.

When he kissed Boston goodbye, it was slow, careful. I saw his hands tremble when he lingered a little too long beside the bassinet.

And then he left.

Just like that.

And I was... alone.

The quiet used to be comforting to me.

Before Boston. Before everything that came with fatherhood. Quiet was synonymous with safety — no alarms, no crying, no panic.

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